


True North

by the_moonmoth



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-19
Updated: 2009-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/pseuds/the_moonmoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right then he was just talking to his parents, handsome but nothing special, and yet Merlin was drawn to him as he ever is, like a magnet seeking true north..</p>
            </blockquote>





	True North

**Author's Note:**

> Weirdly, this was inspired by a trip to Stoke-on-Trent, which is a damn ugly place, and I wondered what it would have looked like pre-industrial revolution, and then, pre-people. It was meant to be a throw away bit of romantic fluff, but I seem incapable of that and it, well... became an excuse for complete and utter self-indulgence. Unbeta'd, all concrit welcome.

Merlin stares out of the window. They're on the M1, going north, and the scenery isn't anything worth mentioning but the sun is shining and Merlin lets the green of the verge blur in front of his eyes. He could have got them to Edinburgh in an instant, of course, but Arthur likes driving, and maybe they need this time together – Merlin has only just found him again, after all.

Arthur looks the same. He supposes he should stop being surprised by this after so long, but sometimes it's hard to remember when each time he's different. Arthur is only reborn when there is the greatest need for him. This does not always involve war and uniting a land as it did the first time, and Arthur seems to obtain the traits he needs through his upbringing – his education, the kinds of parents he has (if he has any), and all the tiny events of his life up until Merlin finds him.

This Arthur is more reserved than Merlin has seen him before, or maybe it's just that he thinks before he speaks. He's athletic, that much can be observed by anyone, and the intensity in his blue eyes is so familiar that something inside Merlin seizes every time he looks at him. He's still wearing the suit from his graduation ceremony earlier, in his shirtsleeves now, though, tie removed and sleeves rolled up.

Merlin had just found out about Edinburgh when he'd felt the strange pull towards a place he hadn't been to in at least a hundred years. He's familiar with the midlands, of course, but in his mind's eye he still sees it as dense green and brown woodland – Loughborough these days is a sprawling town centred around the campus of the university, greener than many towns, yes, but Merlin still feels the shape of the land as it was before, like a ghost.

He'd arrived in amongst flocks of black gowns, but he'd known where to go, just like he always does. The ceremonies were all over, but there were still hundreds of people milling about, talking together, taking photographs. The mid-summer sun beat down, and in amongst the crowd Merlin saw a tall man take off his mortarboard and the sun picked out his blonde hair like gold. And it wasn't the first time, no, nowhere near, but Merlin had to stop for a moment as his breath caught and his knees went weak.

This Arthur is a physics graduate, and now a recently minted PhD in renewable energy systems technology, and Merlin has a feeling he knows what his purpose is this time. But right then he was just talking to his parents, handsome but nothing special, and yet Merlin was drawn to him as he ever is, like a magnet seeking true north.

"Do you know who I am?" he'd asked a little later, catching Arthur alone, and even though he knew Arthur wouldn't be able to tell him his name, he also knew that his answer would be,

"Yes."

And here they are, a handful of words and a hastily packed bag later, tentatively feeling around the edges of each other. He knows that Arthur doesn't keep his memories from lifetime to lifetime, doesn't remember the parents, partners, children, friends who have graced his lives during the last thousand years. But he always knows who Merlin is, never questions what Merlin tells him, never shies away from whatever duty fate has thrown down for him this time. Arthur has explained it to him as like an instinct, a missing part of himself that slots into place when Merlin comes into his life.

He also knows that Arthur dreams, and sometimes some past experience will slip out without either of them really noticing, in conversation or as wisdom beyond his years. Given the circumstances this time, he wonders if Arthur will recognise Morgana.

"I suppose you remember how all this used to be?" Arthur says, gesturing to the fields either side of the motorway. "I've often wondered." It's the first thing he's said in almost an hour – Merlin has learned to give him time to process everything, though it still doesn't come naturally.

"Trees," Merlin replies. "Lots and lots of trees." They pass a road sign for Harthill and Merlin smiles to himself. "I once fought a sorcerer not far from here. Nothing grew on that land for over 500 years, but I went back recently and there was a factory there making lingerie."

"Which brand?" Arthur asks, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye as though he knows what the answer will be.

" _C'est Magique_ ," Merlin replies, grinning, and is gratified to hear the snort of laughter from Arthur. It feels good, to see him boyish again – it's how Merlin always remembers him when he's gone, and yet often he misses Arthur at this age altogether. A swell of – something, not hope, he assures himself – rises in his chest, and he has to look away, back at the line of tarmac stretching ahead of them.

"How old are you?" Merlin asks eventually.

"Twenty-five," Arthur replies, and Merlin aches a little. "How old are _you_?"

"Good question." Merlin had seemed to stop growing older at about age thirty, still long-limbed and skinny and angular, but filled out enough to not look so gawky anymore. Once or twice he'd found a grey hair, and often wonders if he is in fact still aging, just at a much slower rate than everyone else. But more than a thousand years after his birth he has been asked for ID often enough when trying to buy alcohol that it seems, for now, somewhat of a moot point.

Seeming to realise this is all the answer he'll get for now, Arthur changes the subject. "So tell me about this... Morgana?"

Merlin moves uncomfortably, shifting his weight, repositioning the seatbelt. "She's a sorcerer," he says at last.

"Like you?"

"Yes."

"Does she... Is she always...?" Arthur trails off, not yet having the vocabulary to discuss his previous history.

"Three times," Merlin says, rubbing absently at his neck. "The first was our first too. She was like a sister to you – your father took her in when her own father was killed."

"Uther," Arthur says with a small nod, no wonder or denial or confusion, just taking a fact and fitting it into place. Arthur's name isn't Arthur, of course, hasn't been since the first time, but Merlin has never called him anything other than Arthur Pendragon.

"Right. The second time I found her she had already become your lover. The third time, she was your best friend's daughter. Each time, she betrayed you, and the consequences were... unthinkable." He swallows. He's seen Arthur die fourteen separate times.

Arthur glances at him, frowning thoughtfully, but doesn't say anything immediately. After a minute or two, he asks, "How do you know it's her?"

It's hard to explain, so Merlin doesn't try, saying instead, "How did you know it was me?"

Arthur just nods, seeming to get it.

It's not quite like that, though. When whatever force that controls them decides it's time, Merlin feels an irresistible tug to be somewhere and inevitably that is where Arthur is, too. He'd tried, early on, to find him under his own power, but never with any success. Eons have taught him patience.

With Morgana, well. Merlin isn't the only (apparently) immortal being on earth, though he is probably the only person over the age of eight who believes in fairies and sprites and pixies. They're not friends, certainly, and only occasional allies, but they all look out for Morgana: they each have their reasons. He had been in the new forest when an oak sprite had mentioned Edinburgh, and suddenly he had felt it, things lining up in an ancient pattern he has come to dread.

He turns to look at Arthur, sunglasses, rolled-up shirtsleeves, crumpled trousers, hair ridiculously golden in the sunlight, and he desperately wants to reach out, to protect.

"Can we stop at the next services?" he asks.

"Of course."

It's fifteen minutes before Arthur turns off the carriageway, and Merlin spends it drinking the sight of Arthur in. He glances at Merlin now and again, but makes no comment, a small smile curving up the corner of his mouth, and Merlin feels something in his chest expanding unbearably.

It's a relief, when they stop, to tear his eyes away, to open the car door and get out into the summer heat, lean against the chassis and tip his head back to stare blindly at the blue sky and remind himself to keep breathing.

Distantly he hears the other door slam, and Arthur walking around the car, then he's standing in front of him, his voice bringing Merlin sharply back into focus, "Merlin?"

Yes, Arthur has explained it to him as like an instinct, a missing part of himself that slots into place when Merlin finds him. And sometimes, sometimes Merlin tells him that it feels exactly the same to him.

He looks at Arthur, Arthur who looks exactly the same as the first time Merlin fell in love with him, and every time since, and feels more helpless than he has in such a long time.

"I've really missed you," he admits, voice cracking.

Arthur reaches out. "I know," he says quietly, touching fingertips to Merlin's cheekbone, and there, now, now there's surprise, now there's wonder, "I don't know how, but I've missed you too. All my life."

Arthur leans forwards and Merlin watches until the last moment, closing his eyes as Arthur brushes his lips to Merlin's, overwhelmed. The hand that had been touching Merlin's face slides around to tangle in his hair, the other resting almost tentatively on his side, and Merlin reaches up and pulls Arthur towards him until they end up tight against each other, crushing and breathless. And everything is so achingly familiar that for a moment, Merlin is back in a castle that hasn't existed in centuries, unbearably young, kissing Arthur in the bed that they shared.

Some time later – minutes or hours, Merlin can't say – they break apart, Arthur resting his temple against Merlin's, panting breath loud in his ear.

"We're in the middle of a carpark," he says, laughing, and Merlin buries his face in Arthur's neck, breathing him in and starting to laugh as well, the sound bubbling out of him in bursts of uncontrollable joy.

*

And this is the problem. Arthur is usually older when Merlin finds him, often has a spouse, children, responsibility, and one thing that Arthur cannot be Arthur without is his honour – Merlin won't _let_ him be without it. It's been a long time since he's been free to want this, since he's been free to _have_ this, and he's just not sure that he can let go of it again.

Especially when Arthur takes his hand after a long day of anticipation, closing the door of their hotel room with a look that pools heat in the pit of Merlin's stomach. Especially when they're pressed together chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat and Arthur's mouth is leaving a hot, wet trail down his neck. Especially when Arthur grins dazzlingly at Merlin when he removes their clothing with a thought. Especially when Merlin pushes him back and pins him to the bed with magic, and Arthur's eyes turn bright with want.

He allows himself a moment to take in the sight of Arthur, naked and hungry, and knows that Arthur feels his gaze raking his body as a visceral thing, moaning at the invisible touch.

Merlin can't help it; he touches himself as he watches Arthur's face, hand putting flat pressure on his already painfully hard cock, fingertips brushing his balls, and shivers at the wave of pleasure. Arthur watches him, lips slightly parted, starting to pant, struggling against Merlin's hold on him, and Merlin gives himself a light stroke, thumbing the head.

"Merlin, I swear, if you don't get over here right now-"

And for all that Arthur hasn't been royalty in several hundred years, Merlin still remembers how to follow an order when he wishes to.

Arthur is sweat and heat and skin and taste, hands and tongue and lips and teeth, and Merlin moans unabashedly as Arthur finally kneels behind him and traces a line down his back to his entrance, stroking lightly in a way that's so good and not enough. And not long after, when Merlin is lowering himself onto Arthur, it feels so much like coming home that all sound dries up in his throat.

Arthur gasps as Merlin slides him all the way in, coming to rest in his lap, and he reaches around Merlin's torso, big hands splayed open on his chest and stomach as though trying to hold onto as much of him as possible. And when Merlin can't bear it any more and begins to move, Arthur moans and presses wet, open-mouthed kisses into his shoulders and back, stubble scraping, one nipple pinched between finger and thumb, the other hand curling around Merlin's aching cock. And then it's just sensation and Arthur pulling him in so hard for a moment it's as though they really are two halves in the one body, and Merlin feels utterly, utterly possessed.

*

This is the problem because Morgana is a harbinger, and it is never of Arthur living into a happy old age. Merlin has seen Arthur die fourteen separate times, and each one has broken him, but the worst have always been with Arthur's blood slipping through his fingers. Tucked up behind Arthur now, he presses his hand to Arthur's chest and feels his heart beat. There aren't words to express this feeling, this bone-deep dread, this constant aching from inside, that embodies the certain knowledge that once again, this will be one of the times Merlin finds his hands stained in Arthur's blood.

Merlin isn't sure if he can die. The occasions when he has failed to protect himself, he's been run-through, trampled, shot and burned, and it's always hurt and he's always healed. It's ironic, given the constant fear he lived under, under Uther's rule, so ingrained that centuries later he can still recall Uther's face with perfect clarity, when his own mother's has become a timeworn blur.

There are also the occasions when he has been more inventive with himself, despair and loneliness and frustration seeping over. He has never been successful. And so, each time Arthur dies, he knows he will never be able to follow. It's become a question of hording each day of each too-short life, and existing in the time in between.

But Morgana is a harbinger.

Merlin rolls over and sits on the edge of the bed, forming a small ball of fire in his right hand, passing it to his left, back to his right. If he were anyone else, he supposes distantly, it would be a gun he would be toying with now. But he hasn't held a weapon since Arthur accepted the first time around that he didn't really need to carry a sword into battle.

Arthur stirs, and rolls over towards Merlin, propping himself up on one arm and sliding the other sleepily around Merlin's waist. He kisses his shoulder, and then says softly,

"I know what you're thinking, and you're not going to do it."

He doesn't know if it's an instruction or a mere statement of fact, but Merlin is reminded that it doesn't matter that they met less than a day ago – no one will ever know him better than Arthur.

"I won't make the same mistake again," he says. He remembers Mordred. He remembers Morgana's beautiful, terrible face. He remembers how each time he failed to save her from herself, and Arthur paid the price. He remembers how each time he failed.

He shifts slightly, turning towards Arthur, the fireball still in one hand but reaching out to touch Arthur's face with the other, his chin, his nose, the delicate skin under his eyes. "I can't watch you die because of her again."

Arthur's blue eyes consider Merlin for a moment, and then he says quietly, "Then why don't we just leave her alone this time?" Merlin really, truly doesn't follow, and then a moment later is horrified at himself, because this is something he's never considered before. "Maybe what she needs is for us not to be there at all," Arthur clarifies.

The fireball fades out of existence.

And Merlin knows two things in that moment: that Arthur will always, always be the better of them, and that, just as Merlin won't let Arthur be any less than he is, Arthur in return will always keep him pointing true.


End file.
